Chapter 5 - The Sunday Market
By Saturday afternoon, word had traveled across the county the way gossip always does in small Oklahoma towns—fast, twisted, and heavily seasoned with exaggeration.
Aaron and I drove the flatbed into town to pick up three sacks of lye, five bundles of cedar shingles, and fresh groceries from Miller’s General Store. The minute we walked through the double screen doors, the chatter near the meat counter went quiet.
Mrs. Gidley, who had played organ at the Baptist church since the Truman administration, stopped her cart right in the middle of aisle two and stared directly at me.
"Morning, Mrs. Gidley," I said politely, reaching past her for a box of rolled oats.
She pressed her thin lips together until they disappeared entirely. "Some folks say blood is thicker than water, Crystal. Others say some folks just care about land and lawyers."
"Some folks ought to ask why an eight-year-old child comes home with boot marks on her spine before they quote scripture, ma'am," I replied without breaking stride.
Mrs. Gidley gasped, turning her cart around so fast her wheels squeaked, scuttling away toward the bakery counter.
Aaron touched my arm, leaning down. "Let it go, Crys. The town’s going to talk until the next scandal drops."
"They can talk all they want," I murmured. "As long as they know which fence line not to cross."
We paid our bill and stepped out onto the wide wooden porch of the store. The square was busy with Saturday shoppers. Just across the street, parked right in front of the county courthouse, sat Arlin’s Lincoln.
He was standing beside the driver's door, talking to Judge Holloway and Sheriff Miller. When Arlin saw me step into the sunlight, his posture stiffened. The man looked older than he had seventy-two hours ago; his shoulders were slumped beneath his denim jacket, the confident stride replaced by a wary shuffle.
He didn't approach me. He didn't nod. But Judge Holloway tipped his hat toward me, a slow, solemn gesture that told me everything I needed to know. The quitclaim deed had already been reviewed. The county records were updated. The land was legally, irrevocably mine.
As we loaded the shingles into the truck bed, Callie tugged on my hand. "Look, Mama."
Down at the end of the block, leaning against the brick wall of the hardware store, were Mason and Hunter.
They were wearing identical ball caps and dirty jeans, chewing on red licorice vines. When they caught Callie looking, Mason made a claw with his hand, simulating a digging motion, while Hunter mocked a whimpering face, pretending to wipe tears.
Callie flinched, shrinking against my side.
A cold, white-hot fury ignited in my belly. I dropped the bundle of cedar I was carrying into the truck bed with a loud thud that echoed off the brick buildings. I didn't say a word to Aaron; I just turned and began walking across the street, straight toward those two boys.
They thought I was going to yell. As I reached the sidewalk, Mason stood up straight, trying to look big the way he saw his grandfather do, crossing his arms over his chest.
"You boys got something to say to my daughter?" I asked, my voice deadly low, carrying across the sidewalk.
Mason smirked. "We didn't do nothin'. She’s a crybaby."
I stepped inside his personal space, stopping three inches from his face. "Your mother told you this was a game, didn't she? She told you that you were just playing out in the red dirt."
Hunter shifted his weight, his smirk fading as he looked around for his mother’s car.
"Let me tell you what happens next," I said, leaning down so only they could hear. "The next time you look at Callie, the next time you mock her or step foot past the culvert, I am taking the video Aaron’s security cameras recorded of you holding her down in the ditch directly to Sheriff Miller. He’s standing right across that street. Do you know what juvenile detention looks like in this state, Mason?"
The color drained from Mason’s freckled cheeks. "You... you don't have video."
"Try me and find out," I whispered. "Run along back to your mother before I walk over to that squad car right now."
They didn't utter another syllable. Mason shoved the licorice into his pocket, grabbed Hunter’s arm, and both of them broke into an outright sprint around the corner of the feed store.
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I stood there on the hot sidewalk, watching their retreating backs, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.
When I turned back, Sheriff Miller was watching me from across the street. He didn't cross over. He just touched the brim of his Stetson, gave a curt nod of approval, and walked into the sheriff's annex.
